Caric Fletcher
Appearance and Personality Caric Fletcher, or just 'Fletch' as known by some, is a surprisingly stocky little man. Reaching a height of 5'5 he is often mocked for his stature. His features are sharp and rough, his teeth yellow and his face unshaven. His bald head shines in the sun, and is regularly accompanied with a red hat or headband. Strapped to the legs are two knife holsters, each nestling two enormous knives that could plunge deep into the flesh and shatter a bone, or slip under a rib and puncture a beating heart. His eyes are of the palest blue, verging on white, and have a mysterious purple hue closer to the iris. His keen senses and sharp eyesight seems to be specifically tuned for the wilderness, speculation even suggesting that he is of half-elven descent. Though such myths have been unproven, and highly unlikely, it is hard to deny his survival skills and opportunistic lifestyle. His body is sculpted and strong, the sheer am ount of muscle covering his body almost sickening. This has been achieved through years of physical activity living in the wilderness and away from the struggles of civilisation. Alas, the muscularity of this fine fellow must have affected his brain in one way or another. Unable to read, write, or shoe a horse he is not the man you would view as a scholar. This is obvious in the way he speaks, often misinterpreting words, pronouncing things incorrectly, or stumbling over his own tongue. He is not the most eloquent individual you will have the pleasure of meeting. He is often seen with a variety of weapons, conventional or otherwise. The amount of weapons he has fought with is almost limitless: Swords, axes, clubs, rope, pillows, chairs, bottles, rocks and even the occasional animal (legend has it, Caric killed a man with a toad from the nearby pond), though he is never seen without his prized possession: Natasha. A specially crafted composite crossbow that has been at his side for over a decade. Though a very powerful weapon, it is also incredibly heavy. After such a long period of time, Caric has become accustomed to the weight and feel of his firearm and no longer needs the cocking stirrup to draw his string. He had a new cocking stirrup forged instead, with longer spikes to counter and repel melee attackers. Though not efficient against a skilled swordsman, it brings an easy kill to those who are too stupid to realise the situation. More than once somebody has tried to be a hero, the cocking stirrup stopped a blade, then Caric pulls the trigger. The end result was a messy, point-blank bolt to the chin. Though a strong man, Caric favours leather armour over plate or mail. Metal equipment is too irritating, too loud, and too heavy to be agile. Though he favours the crossbow he has enough experience to stay alive with a sword, and even more so with his fists. His fighting style like that of a rough, backstreet brawler that consisted of a high defense, followed by a brutal counter, and regularly resulting in many broken bones or severed limbs. He even dared to say his unarmed prowess could only be excelled by that of the recently discovered pandaren and one day this would be proven. His fighting style was far from graceful, and desecrated the boundaries of honour, but it got the job done and the twist of a nerver cluster, or a thumb in a knife wound was one of the few ways to stop an orc without a battleship's cannon. The vast majority of people Mr. Fletcher has met view him as arrogant, pompous, heartless, self-centered and greedy. All of these things are true, and more. His small size leaves him with a burning hatred for those that tower in comparison, which gives him another reason to despise the green-skinned menace of Orc-kind. However, Caric lives for the moment and lives for himself, and would probably make better friends with privateers or goblins. His allegiance lies with who can pay the most for his professional services, and though he seems downright cruel, he will never kill without good reason. One more senseless death could be one less paycheck in the future, and with work as slim as it is, you cannot afford one less paycheck. Early Days Caric's childhood years was dominated by the day-to-day travels of nomadic individuals. His parents never capable of settling down for long, and the absence of their educations as well as his own forced the struggling family to shuffle from town to town. Caric's father was a notorious street performer and entertainer, his act consisting of a variety of physical feats. From brute strength to coordination, the impressive street artist tended to juggle objects that would lead to a dangerous and potentially painful end if something didn't go according to plan. Knives and torches were the norm, though it was unfortunate that at one time he juggled a stick of goblin dynamite, a dagger that was dipped in tar and set alight, and a startled ferret. This show met a premature end. As some may have expected, the ferret bit it's juggling handler, and the dagger struck the explosive, the crowd who had been silenced with shock and awe erupted in screams of horror at the messy carcasses of man and weasel. This then led to the tragic mourning of Caric and his mother, the two left unprovided and with nothing to their name. Living off the scraps they could and continuing with the horrific vagrancy that they had previously experienced, yet without the company of a whole family. The broken home took very different career paths, Caric pickpocketing on city streets during the day, and his mother selling both her body and her dignity at night, they would return to their tent to see the shame in eachother's eyes before closing them and settling down to sleep. Only to repeat the process hours later. Nearly a Man Dragging himself into his teenage years by the skin of his teeth, Caric found that pickpocketing was not his forté as he grew older. His mother had long since died from unknown, yet highly assumed, sexual diseases and responsibility and survival was settled with him and him alone. His days consisted of the same thievery that it once did, and returning home to his tent that was nestled in the seclusion of an overhanging cave, in the recesses of Elwynn Forest. Poaching was not a problem in this bountiful land, and the lessons he recieved as a young man, from his tragically deceased parents, kept his belly relatively full until he could snatch an influx of copper. Though Caric felt it was time to increase his dwindling wealth, if only by a fraction, and gathered together his hunting tackle. It was time to grasp his father's meager legacy and the young man spent a long year practicing the tricks of the trade, juggling knives and lighting alcohol to replicate the spewing fires of dragons, as the legends and stories described. Banditry ( Soon ) Present Day Caric Fletcher now works for The Hunters. A small organisation that hunts and destroys the impure or otherwise harmful. Be it demons, worgen or undead. Though he is not a strict follower of the Light, and he doesn't seem to care much for The Hunters' sense of honour and friendship, the money is decent enough to keep him going, they make sure his belly is full, and he can do what he loves: Shooting things. What he wished to shoot the most however, was the insufferable eejit named Krai. The pair constantly bickering over the smallest of reasons. Though Caric is normally the one that starts the arguments with petty remarks or harmful insults, Krai's attempts of 'making Fletch a better person' are all in vain. Nobody will change the hot-blooded mercenary from doing what he wants, and how he wants to do it. His skill, his instincts, and his knowledge of the wild keeps them alive in a large variety of situations: The sooner they accept that, and keep the copper flowing, the longer they will live. His recent endeavours have left the mercenary otherwise occupied however, informing his emplorer Alexander that he has been diverted from his orginal work for personal matters and will return to the Hunters as soon as possible for his glorious handfuls of silver. Favourite Quotes - "People say I ain't got no honour. I say drop y' sword, an' I'll let you look me in the eyes when I pull th' trigger." - "Piss 'bout with me an' I'll make your face look as rough as a badgers arse." - "Is the Maelstrom your mammy's bellybutton?" - "Fightin' is like fishing. You wait for 'em to bite, then smack the shit out of 'em." Nowhere near finished. Enjoy what is here, though. Category:The Hunters Category:Human Category:Mercenary Category:Back story